


Dark Side of His Sun

by Sierra_Butterfly



Category: The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:59:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10691181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sierra_Butterfly/pseuds/Sierra_Butterfly
Summary: Clarke Griffin is kidnapped and used as a catalyst for war between Azgeda and Skaikru, but what happens when plans go awry and love is found in an unlikely place?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this story contains very mature content, including: rape and associated trauma, death, suicidal thoughts, (consensual) erotic scenes, and language. If you do not feel comfortable with these topics, then you should not read this. That being said, the rape scene occurs in the first chapter and I will bold/underline the asterisks (***) so you know the scene is coming up. At the end of the scene I will put these asterisks again. You will not miss any major content by skipping this section. This section is only included for the emotional impact it has on Clarke at the time. There will be future mention of this scene, but nowhere as explicit as it is in this first section. 
> 
> I intend to include a fair bit of Azgedasleng (for the sake of this story, this is equivalent to Trigedasleng). Currently, I have translations in brackets, but if this is distracting I am happy to remove these and put them in a dictionary at the end of the chapter.

**Chapter One**  


_| ~ Holes in the Sky ~ |  
_

_M83_

The wind nipped at her face, leaving a bite of red against her otherwise pale flesh and drawing tears from her crystalline blue eyes. Despite wearing leather gloves, she could no longer feel her fingers with the cold and how tightly they were wrapped around her bow. _If this is just the beginning of winter_ , she thought and shuddered at the idea of the weather getting worse. 

Reluctantly, Clarke relaxed the bowstring and glanced up at the overcast sky. It was getting late and she was due back at the medical ward by nightfall. Ever since Clarke had apprenticed under her mother it seemed she spent more and more time running the ward, and she suspected it was an attempt to keep her from guard duties; an attempt to distance Clarke from all the blood on her hands. 

On a good day, it almost worked. On days like today, it didn’t matter how many lives Clarke saved; she was too distracted by the ghosts of those she killed and couldn’t save. On days like today, wielding Lexa’s bow left a painful twist in her chest. 

A twig snapped to her right, no more than twenty yards away, and her fingers tightened, an arrow nocked in an instant. Her muscles burned with adrenaline as she scanned her surroundings. She desperately hoped it was a deer or a boar, but then another twig snapped to her left and her chest tightened. Her excitement dimmed as some sixth sense sent a shiver down her spine. 

Something was wrong.

Intuitive fear made her belly churn and Clarke found herself holding her breath. 

If someone was in these woods with her, they were intentionally letting her know. Not even a grounder child would make such an ignorant folly while travelling the woods.

_I’m at the edge of Ice Nation territory._ Clarke bit her lower lip while she strained to hear more movement.

Several moments passed in silence before she was rewarded with a heavy footfall directly behind her. She spun on heel and raised her bow in the same movement, leveling her nocked arrow between the dark gaze of an Ice Nation warrior.

If he was surprised by her swiftness he did not let on.

Clarke heard more movement around her and the icy fear spread, but with great effort she repressed her growing panic. “Why are you on our land?” she spoke calmly and glared, invoking her namesake in an attempt to avoid whatever confrontation was bound to happen. 

But the longer she studied the dark haired man in front of her, the more her mind raced. He looked dirtier than he ought to if he lived at one of the nearby villages. His furs were more ragged than someone who worked and could afford basic repairs. The Ice Nation were not vain, by any means, but they took care in bathing when possible. They cared for their furs because without them they would die from the cold. 

The man attempted a reassuring smile, but his gaze kept shifting to his fellow men. 

A voice in the back of her mind screamed at her: _Run. What are you waiting for?_ Clarke almost winced at how much that voice sounded like Lexa. 

“Who are you?” she said with more authority than she felt. She heard a snort to her right but she didn’t dare let her stare wander. “If you don’t answer, I’ll consider you hostile.” Yeah, treat them like rioting civilians. They’ll listen to that. She could have smacked herself for the ignorant threat. 

“I’m Garith,” the man said finally, but he spoke as though he had not used his voice for quite some time. Or perhaps it was his name he had not uttered in a while. “You’re mistaken if you think I am Azgeda though, Skaigada.”

Clarke flicked her attention to her left for a fraction of a second and found two men flanked her. With clenched teeth she glanced to her right and found two more.

_There’s another behind you._ It was a subconscious thought in the recess of her mind, a mere echo of Lexa’s voice, but she thought it was likely true. These men had her surrounded.

“If you’re not Azgeda, then why do you travel the borders of us and them?”

Garith jerked his head once and Clarke shot a single arrow, embedded in their ring leader’s neck, before she felt heavy hands tighten on her shoulders.

Clarke ducked, desperately grasping for her hidden blade, but the moment her fingers grazed the hilt of her knife she felt strong arms snake around, trapping her in a choke hold. It was all she could do to tuck her chin into the crook of her attacker’s elbow, preventing at least some of her air restriction.

When it seemed she was unlikely to reach her own blade she fumbled blindly for the dagger she hoped her attacker would have. She tried his left hip and came up empty, and by the time she reached for his right hip she could feel the spottiness of her vision.

Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of a bone-carved dagger and she pulled it free of its sheath in one swift movement. Rather than embed the weapon in her attacker’s abdomen, she slashed deep into his arm and he released her with a hiss.

Clarke stumbled and her scarf slid from her neck, allowing her frizzy blonde hair to obscure her vision. Blindly she slashed upward and felt the blade’s edge make contact with soft flesh, and then she felt warm blood slip beneath the sleeve of her leather jacket. She pulled back and turned to face her other attackers.

There were four, all in a state of unkemptness, and all possessing Azgedan scars. But if they were not Azgeda, then who were they? None of the other clans practiced scarification, as all the other clans found it savage, however ornate the designs may be.

Before Clarke could ponder their identity further, two of the four lunged for her and she stumbled backwards in an attempt to escape. As her desperation peaked she slashed wildly, but a part of her knew it was useless. They would catch her; they would kill her. 

“ _Moba, Wanheda, yu na wan op._ ” [Sorry, Wanheda, you have to die.]

“ _Hod op._ ” [Wait]

Clarke considered the man with braided brown hair and the newest looking furs. The others seemed to listen to him, and for a moment she wondered if she had assessed their roles wrong. Was he the leader instead?

_Run!_

Clarke knew it was futile, but she ran anyways, her feet clumsy and heavy against the moist ground. In a matter of moments she felt a blade whiz by her ear, embedding itself in the trunk of a nearby tree. Her heart lunged for her sternum, as though desperate to escape even if the rest of her could not.

A heavy body crashed into hers and she threw her hands in front of her, attempting to catch the worst of the landing, but she only managed to land in a bramble bush. Tiny thorns pierced her skin and left shallow gashes when the man dragged her up by her hair. Clarke winced, considered screaming, but she knew she was too far away to be heard by anyone.

“You’ll regret, running, Skaigada.” She felt his hot breath against the back of her neck and for the first time in a long while, Clarke thought her current fate may be far worse than death.

She barely felt the strike against her temple before darkness and weightlessness claimed her.

***

Time and consciousness passed without meaning.

Despite her attempts to avoid consciousness, it claimed her every once in awhile, and without fail one of her captors would stumble over, pants around their ankles and a seedy grin on their grungy faces.

The first time she woke up she realized her leather leggings and jacket had been removed. Likewise, her undergarments were missing, and when she took inventory off her aches and pains, she felt evidence between her thighs. 

Blood. Semen.

On some subconscious level she knew these men had violated her; she knew the aftermath of their sadism was responsible for the sticky residue. She expected to feel fear or anger or broken, but it was like she was barely even there; a husk of the person she once was. 

That was, until she rolled on her side and saw three of the four men watching her, greeting her with cruel smiles and leering gazes. When their brown haired leader stood and started undoing his pants, a flood of emotions surged through her veins: fear, disgust, hatred, desperation, panic. 

She tried to spit at him but his starved gaze only darkened. When he was close enough she tried kicking him, but he caught her foot and twisted harshly. “Go ahead, Skaigada: fight back. It makes it so much better.” And then he was on top of her. 

The first thrust almost made her cry, but she refused to give him that satisfaction. Instead she bit her lip until it bled and stayed silent, refusing to break eye contact until he finished. 

By the time the third man had his turn, the pain was too great and she greeted unconsciousness like a long lost friend, knowing that her captors would use her body until she died, and maybe even after that. 

***

The third time she woke up Clarke prayed for death to take her sooner rather than later. Pain radiated through her side from the various kicks and punches she had earned by disobeying. For every time she refused to open her mouth, or spread her legs, or roll over.

Eventually she learned that these cowards enjoyed her pain as much as they enjoyed using her body for pleasure, and the punishments were doled without prompting.

It was after the fifth time that she roused to this hell that she thought it was finally over: they had damaged her body too much. She would not wake again. 

There had been an argument. She was coherent enough to recognize the elevated voices, but she could not focus enough to comprehend what they were saying. It probably wouldn’t have mattered anyways; they spoke in Azgedasleng, and Clarke had to focus on a good day to follow a conversation.

Today was not a good day.

One of the men stamped over to her and kicked her in the stomach: hard. Clarke coughed, tasted the coppery warmth in the back of her throat, and smiled as the pain dragged her under.

_You’re free. Finally._


	2. Silent Scream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually, I will update once or twice a week. Currently, I am writing chapter twelve (and have edited up to chapter five), so I figured I would go ahead and add another chapter today. I plan on updating again on April 26th. Once this semester is finished I will wrap up this story pretty quickly. 
> 
> Oh, and I forgot to mention this on the previous chapter... This is mostly canon up to season 3 (last episode), with the exception that Ontari did not kill everyone in the conclave and Aiden became the commander of the coalition. A.L.I.E. was defeated and Clarke was not told about Primafaeya. (Aiden is still alive). 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy :)

**Chapter Two**

_| ~ Silent Scream ~ |_

_Damien Dawn_

“It’s Wanheda!”

 _Just let me die._

“Clarke, can you hear me?”

_Damn it. Why can’t I just die?_ Was the universe really so cruel? 

“Clarke, open your eyes.”

_Do it._

Clarke might have groaned, but it was difficult to be certain with her head pounding as it was.  
Open your eyes. 

How was it that Lexa commanded her even in death? Unless Clarke was actually dead? _But if I’m dead, why does it still hurt?_

Reluctantly, she tried to remember how to move her eyelids--or anything, for that matter--but her mind was sluggish and her body was even slower to respond. 

When at last she managed to open her eyes her confusion spiked, and the healer part of her brain wondered if she was fevered. Fevered and hallucinating, because she had to hallucinating or dead. There was no other explanation for the King of Azgeda to be kneeling at her side.  
“What...?” Clarke squinted and her brows knit together as she struggled to focus beyond the black and grey spots dancing around her vision. For every moment she focused she gained another bit of clarity: first his rage blown eyes, then his hawk-like nose, and finally his pale lips twisted in a frown. 

A chill shot through her spine and she shuddered, sending a stab of pain through her center. 

They must be in hell.

That would explain the pain, although she always imagined hell would be hot, not bone chillingly cold.

“You’re alive,” Roan said, almost gently, and Clarke struggled to understand. To align his kindness with her mental image of him. 

_You’re wrong,_ was her first thought, but then he leaned over her and wrapped his fur jacket around her. Clarke took a hesitant breath and realized it smelled like him: an intoxicating mixture of warmth, trees, and sweat. 

The king turned over his shoulder and spoke rapidly, issuing commands to his warriors, and then his attention was back on Clarke. He leaned over her and fixed her with a pointed gaze. “I need to carry you,” he warned.

The instant his fingers brushed her bare skin Clarke recoiled harshly, and she watched his internal struggle play out in his face. After a moment of hesitation he sighed and slid one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. He averted his gaze and focused on their surroundings. 

Confusion served as a haphazard tether to reality as Clarke slowly scanned the cave, noting three of her captors were dead, but the other was hauled by a burly, red haired warrior. It was their leader, his braided hair dragging against the ground as the warrior dragged him to the entrance. 

She expected to feel fear or anger, but after a moment of studying her captor she felt nothing, even her confusion dissipating. Physical pain no longer plagued her, though the coherent part of her brain reminded her it was probably the cold numbing her to it. Maybe she would die after all, only instead of at the hands of her captors, it would be from the bitter cold. 

It was almost a welcome thought as she lightly rested her temple against Roan’s chest and drifted off, trusting the Azgeda king to keep her safe. 

At least while she was broken.

***

Like an old friend, searing agony dragged Clarke back into reality.

Panic traveled in its footsteps and despite her body’s immediate protest, Clarke lurched forward. In a single movement she threw the furs from her body and lunged off the bed, but the moment her feet touched the ground she found her legs unable to hold her weight and she crumbled to her knees.

Her palms slammed against the floor as she struggled to keep herself from collapsing completely. Sweat made her clothes cling to the small of her back and her wild, frizzy curls stick to her forehead. Bandages and ointment covered most of her body. 

A sob threatened to escape but it lodged in her throat, leaving her coughing and cringing at the soreness that wracked her body. Her mind warred against her and flashed scenes of the past hours—or was it days? Fear, anger, and weakness roared in her veins as she struggled to wrap her mind around her capture. 

Her abuse.

Her rescue?

Slowly, Clarke brought her tear-filled gaze across the room and rested on the unmoving mass of muscle and anger.

King Roan stood with his arms crossed over his chest, expression taut as he watched from afar, as though she were a rabid animal; as likely to gut him as to flee in fear.

She noted the way his back was pressed against the door, guarding it. Preventing anyone from entering without his explicit permission.

The memory of her sixth lapse of consciousness sent a rush of heat to her cheeks; an irrational embarrassment pedaling her heart to faster and faster speeds. Shame quickly spread through her veins as she recalled the state she had been in; the evidence that had coated her bare body.  
Tears trickled down her cheeks: a weakness she had not allowed herself while she endured, but a weakness she could no longer put off.

Rather than appear uncomfortable with her tears, Roan watched her with quiet, undirected anger. He did not move closer, but she had not doubt that he was there for her, because he understood she needed space. He knew better than to try and comfort her with empty words or hugs. 

And so she silently cried while her heart shattered. Like glass, each fragment of her heart worked deeper into her chest, irritating her fragile psyche with each momentary flashback. It was far from physical, although aches in various places confirmed that she had not dreamt the horrors, and it was so much worse. 

All the while, Roan watched her, a silent guardian angel as she let herself fall apart, recalling each cut. Each kick. Each violation. 

And packing every painful second into a box to store in the back of her mind, to never open again.

It was a slow process, picking up all the shattered pieces of her psyche, but as the minutes gradually become an hour, she felt a little better. Whole again, even if she was no more stable than a house of cards. The lightest of breezes capable of knocking over the whole damn house, but for now, she was whole. 

“How did you find me?” she asked, not recognizing her voice for the raspy quality of it.

Still, the king did not move from his post, though he seemed to relax minutely at the sound of her voice. “Scouts from this village found the bodies of two _splita._ I was in the area and decided to accompany them.” He paused and considered her before he continued. “This group of splita…we knew there were six of them, and we thought the other four would be in the area. We tracked them down to the cave, and we found you.”

Clarke processed the king’s words slowly, nodding to herself absently. After a moment she met his gaze again, searching for pity but finding none. “Where are we?”

“We’re at an inn in Trikova. It’s a small village about a mile from the cave.”

She closed her eyes and immediately regretted it as an unwelcome image flashed in her mind’s eye. Pushing past the mental reminder, she fixed her attention back on the king. “Thank you.”

Roan nodded once and they fell into a semi comfortable silence as Clarke slowly rose, using the side of the bed as leverage to haul herself up. Once she settled on the edge, elbows balanced on her knees and her forehead in her hands, Roan straightened. “I’ll call for the healer,” he said before slipping out of the room.

He was only gone for a minute, but Clarke felt his absence as much as if he had taken a physical piece from her. When he returned an older woman with greying red hair and kind, grey eyes followed.

“Oh good, King Roan said you were awake.”

Clarke offered a small smile as the woman came closer. This woman was likely the oldest person Clarke had seen in an Azgeda village. Despite her initial suspicions, Roan had once told her it was not a mandatory culling of the elderly, but the inability of the elderly to survive their harsh winters.

“How do you feel?” the healer asked her gently, slowly moving to grasp her wrist.

The older woman’s fingers were chilled, likely from the trip to the inn, and Clarke could feel the strength in her grip. There was no hesitance in her touch as she checked her patient’s vitals. After a moment she realized she had yet to answer and she coughed, her voice still feeling strained. “Better.”

A knowing look flickered in those grey eyes, but the woman said nothing to contradict her. “ _Ai laik Rebeka com Azgeda. Yu laik Klark com Skaikru._ ”[I am Rebeka of Azgeda. You are Clarke of Skaikru] Rebeka tilted her head slightly, a furrow between her wrinkled brow. “You had deep wounds across your back and temples,” as she spoke, she lightly touched each area on Clarke. “I stitched them and packed them with seaweed and white dye to help them heal and to stop infection.”

_White dye?_

Rebeka glanced over her shoulder and sighed, turning back to Clarke. “I gave you a mixture of Queen Anne’s Lace seeds, ground up and infused in a tea with smartweed leaves to prevent a yongon [child]. I also stitched damage caused by the rapes.”

Clarke frowned as her mind focused on that word: rape. It felt strange to hear. It was even stranger to accept that that was what happened. 

She was raped.

She knew that was the word as it was happening, but at the time she could only think of dying—of escaping. She never imagined surviving as a rape victim.

Another word. Victim. Clarke felt her chest constrict at the idea. _I don’t want to be a victim,_ she thought and anger leaked into her veins as the word seemed to expand in her mind, dominating every ounce of her focus.

“Wanheda.”

Clarke blinked and flicked her attention from the corner of the dresser to Roan’s steady, glacial blue gaze. She shook her head slowly, realizing after a moment that she must have tuned out whatever they had asked her. “I’m sorry, what?”

Roan held her stare, as though tethering her to reality, before he asked, “Do you want me to leave? Rebeka needs to redress your wounds.”

Before she even comprehended what she was doing, she shook her head. Later she would reflect on the relief she saw as the king unclenched his jaw and leaned back against the door. Now she turned to Rebeka. “I need to disrobe?” she confirmed and received a small nod.

Clarke eased herself to her feet and found her knees capable of supporting her, however shakily. She turned her back to Roan and unbuttoned the shirt someone must have loaned her. It was long and hung to her mid-thigh, and for the first time she realized she did not have pants.

After a moment of confusion she realized it was to prevent irritation to her nether region, which steadily began burning with each movement. As she lightly pushed the shirt off her shoulders, Clarke considered a year ago, when she might have been embarrassed by disrobing in front of two people.

Now she barely even thought of it as she maneuvered so she rested on her belly, her head tilted to one side. She felt Rebeka rest a drying towel across her lower half, offering some modesty. In contrast, her back was bare save for the bandages crisscrossing from her upper left shoulder to her lower right hip.

Clarke met Roan’s gaze and tried to understand why he was standing guard for her. Why was he so protective right now? And why did murderous anger radiate from him, visible in the way his fingers clenched his forearms and the rigidity of his stance, even as he rested against the door?

She felt Rebeka begin removing the old dressing and she closed her eyes. It didn’t hurt, but it gave her something to focus on instead of the king’s heavy stare or the scars that framed those intense blue orbs. 

Footsteps made Clarke open her eyes once all of the bandages were removed, and she realized Roan was on a foot away. A deep frown twisted his lips and furrowed his brows as he studied her back.

He murmured an Azgedasleng curse and Clarke twisted her head slightly, attempting to understand but unable to see her back.

“The _bastod_ marked you,” [bastard] Roan said quietly, catching her inquisitive gaze.

“Marked?” Clarke asked, confusion and fear causing her stomach to plummet. _Scars._ It came to her half a second after she asked. The men had been Azgeda—they were outcasts. _Splita._

“You should wait,” Rebeka cautioned, but Roan shook his head once and glared at the older woman, who merely sighed and returned to bandaging Clarke’s back again.

“One of the _splita_ is still alive,” Roan said and waited for that to register before he went on, his voice practically a growl, “ _Em op laik yun frag._ ” [He is your kill] 

Clarke closed her eyes and took a deep breath. He is your kill.

He was asking if she wanted to claim it.

_It probably won’t make you feel better._ The voice in the recess of her mind sounded like her mother, but as each moment passed by Clarke realized she didn’t care if it made her feel better.

She just didn’t want to feel that weakness burning in her chest.

“ _Sha, em op laik ain,_ ” [Yes, he is mine] she said it quietly, but firmly, and she was pleased to see no doubts stared back at her. “When?”

Roan glanced at Rebeka, who scowled and shook her head. “I want you to rest another day. Aside from that, you can do what you want.”

The king nodded. “Tomorrow then. There will be no audience.”

“ _Murchof._ ” [Thank you]

Rebeka finished binding her wounds and handed her a cup of tea. “Drink this, it will help you rest.”


	3. Safest Place [Echosmith]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that read this so far, and to everyone that commented, bookmarked, or left kudos! I really appreciate the interest this story has gotten so far. 
> 
> Just a quick thing about this chapter: I probably rewrote the first section five times and I'm still not really happy with it. But tomorrow I have a twelve hour day and a desperate need to study for a toxicology final, so I decided to go ahead and post it today. I hope you guys enjoy it :) 
> 
> Also, HTML formatting is going to kill me. I noticed I didn't italicize a couple areas in previous chapters. I plan on going back through and revising these chapters this weekend. 
> 
> My goal is to post chapter four on the 30th (Sunday) and chapter five on May 6th.

**Chapter Three**

_| ~ Safest Place ~ |_

_[Echosmith]_

When Clarke woke hours later she expected the Ice Nation king to have left and she spared only a brief glance at the empty doorway. In spite of herself, her chest constricted in dull mourning and she took a deep breath, wincing at the sharp pang in her side. _You need time to think anyways_.

“You’re awake.” 

_Thu-thump!_

She flicked her gaze from the doorway, breath lodged in her throat while her heart hammered in her chest. Adrenaline left her spine rigid as she raised her hands to ward off the potential attacker, and then realization settled over her. 

_Roan_. 

With a shaky exhale, Clarke turned and studied his back, and she was surprised to find him no longer wearing his leather and fur cuirass. Or any of his armor, for that matter. The absence of the heavy material left him in only a long sleeved shirt and loose pants, while his hair hung loose across his back. 

Curiously, she dropped her gaze to his hips and noticed he wasn’t carrying a weapon either. “Do you trust me now?” she asked, spinning amusement into her tone to hide her surprise. 

Roan glanced over his shoulder, and though he didn’t say it, they both knew that if she were to attack him, he would have no issue defending himself. “Even a king has to sleep,” he pointed out and resumed his fixation on the starry sky. 

“You’re not asleep, you’re still standing guard.” 

He sighed but did not argue her point. “Are you up to eating?” 

As though on cue, her stomach knotted in on itself and she nodded readily, then realized his back was still turned to her. “Yeah” 

Wordlessly, he wandered to the bedroom door and Clarke could just make out the undertones of a conversation with one of the stationed guards. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and Roan carried two plates of food to the bedside table, where a couple glasses of water already sat. He set both plates on the bedside table and went to drag a wooden chair next to the bed. 

Clarke eased herself into a sitting position and reached for one of the glasses, drinking half of it before the coherent part of her brain told her to slow down or she’d just throw up everything later. With some reluctance, she placed the cup back on table and gingerly picked up the ration of bread. The bottom was burnt and it crumbled in her hands, but it had a pleasing sweet and salty taste. 

For a few moments she focused on chewing her food, giving herself a bit to register how her stomach received nutrients. Pausing between bites she glanced at Roan. “How long have I been out?”

“You woke up a couple times over the past three days. Long enough for Rebeka to make you eat and drink. I don’t know how long the _splita_ had you.” 

_I probably had a concussion_ she thought absently. It would explain her inability to remember waking up these past few days. By the time she finished half of her bread ration she was satisfied that her stomach would hold over for the rest of dinner. Especially if this wasn’t her first time eating or drinking anything for the past couple of days. 

With the concern of vomiting gone, Clarke focused her attention on the questions racing through her mind. “Why did you stay?” 

For a long minute the king considered her, absently twirling his spoon, and then he leaned back in his seat and sighed. “My mother’s rule left villages nearly starved during mild winters, and I suspect this winter will be the harshest we have seen in years. I need to ensure your people don’t start a war over your attack.”

“They won’t,” Clarke started, and Roan arched a brow. 

“You’re their leader. Not to mention, your people have attacked villages for far less.” 

She wanted to protest, but it was futile and she knew it. Instead she grimaced. “I’ll make sure they don’t.”

He nodded and they fell into a comfortable silence as they ate their soup. It was salty with an oddly tangy aftertaste, but Clarke didn’t question what it was. She was far more interested in the dark haired man in front of her, bowl pressed to his lips as he drank the soup. She might have smiled at the unkingly action, but her thoughts were preoccupied with snapshot memories of Roan fighting. 

She recalled his ferocity when fighting Lexa, and though it made her stomach twist at the thought of this man harming the woman she loved, she was forced to acknowledge his skill.

With each traitorous recollection, the request on the tip of her tongue became more difficult to suppress. _Can you even trust him?_

Her first instinct was to say no, but as she leaned her head against the wall with a quiet thump she knew that wasn’t her answer; it was Lexa’s. Lexa was dead, and no matter how much Clarke wished otherwise, there was nothing she could do to bring the woman back. There was no reason for the previous commander’s prejudice against the Ice Nation to pollute Clarke’s thoughts now. 

And if she were honest with herself, those prejudices were easy for her to remove as she recalled her interactions with Roan. Even when he had captured her, he had not been dishonorable, and for as many times as she had tried killing him, he had saved her. 

“I need to know how to fight,” she broke the silence suddenly, peeking under hooded lids to see the king’s reaction. 

Ever the strategist, Roan did well to conceal his surprise as he studied the younger woman. “You have your gun, your knife, and your bow. What do you mean?” 

She shook her head and grimaced. “We’re out of bullets, and with my knife and bow I only took out two of the six.”

He waited for her to continue, but she was too busy gauging his reaction to take the hint. “What are you asking, Clarke?”

“I want you to train me to use a sword. To fight without weapons.”

She received no response for several moments, though Roan’s gaze was heavy on her face. His attention was not her eyes, but her temples, and not for the first time, Clarke wished she could see her reflection. She wished she could see the scars on her back. “You would be willing to come to our capitol for the winter?”

“I don’t want to feel weak again,” was her only answer. Though if she were honest, she would spend the rest of her life with the Azgeda if it meant she would never feel this weakness again.

He lowered his gaze in thought and Clarke could practically see the wheels turning in his head. “Will you work with our healers and teach them what you know?”

“Yes.” Her answer was immediate, and for once she felt certain that she could do so adequately. In the months since A.L.I.E. had been defeated, Clarke had spent half her time as an apprentice to her mother, and the other half as a guard and hunter. “I can hunt as well.” 

His brows pulled in as he took a deep breath. “Then yes, I’ll train you.” 

He said it on a breath, and in a moment of surprise, Clarke blinked. “Really?” 

The king smirked and Clarke internally kicked herself. Rather than mock her though, he got to his feet and collected their empty plates and bowls. “I sent a rider to Arkadia yesterday. I suspect your mother and Bellamy will arrive tomorrow.” He paused. “I instructed the rider not to tell them what happened unless necessary.” 

“ _Murchof_ ”  


  
The moment Clarke knocked on the older woman’s cottage door, she was met by a younger boy, no more than ten or eleven, and a girl even younger, toddling her way through the home.

Rebeka followed close behind, offering a broad smile and an arched brow. “What brings you here, Klark com Skaikru?”

Clarke glanced at the children and bit her lower lip, not wanting to mention her request in front of the young ones. Fortunately, the older woman understood immediately and told the boy, Isa, to take his sister to the stable.

The boy happily tugged on his sister’s pudgy hand, propelling the infant along the windy dirt path to the stables a few yards away.

“Thank you,” Clarke smiled.

“You’re here to know about your scars,” Rebeka guessed as she guided the blonde haired woman to the kitchen area. Clarke considered the quaint little room, with a bar long enough to seat the healer and the two kids with minimal elbow room, and high stools that surely were too wobbly for the infant.

Regardless, it felt like a home, and Clarke even noticed a couple drawings attached to the wall. For a moment she studied the one closest to her. It was drawn in charcoal. The lines weren’t as crisp as they could be, but it was a beautiful drawing nonetheless, depicting the trees and a river, and what Clarke thought to be a deer in the distance. 

In spite of herself, Clarke felt her lips quirk into a genuine smile before she faced the healer’s heavy stare. “Sha,” Clarke nodded. “Do you know what they mean?”

Rebeka shook her head slowly, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening in thought. “Have you seen them?”

“No.”

“Sit,” the woman commanded and left the room long enough to retrieve parchment and charcoal. “Remove your coat and shirt. I will draw them for you.”

And so Clarke peeled off her fur coat, followed by another button down shirt which she used to cover her breasts. Rebeka moved forward long enough to remove the bandages, and then she set to work.

Clarke rested her chin in her palms, elbows pressed against the kitchen bar. If she listened carefully she could hear the woman’s quick sketching, the charcoal rough against the parchment but capable of forming masterpieces nonetheless.

As the moments trickled by, excitement and apprehension quivered through her chest. However solemn the scars may be, it felt right somehow, that she bore physical evidence of what happened. She would never forget, and if last night’s nightmares were any indication, those hours would always haunt her. It was natural that her body was a canvas of evidence as well.

“You may dress again,” Rebeka said, interrupting Clarke’s reverie. Immediately, she started dressing, the chill in the air reminding her of winter’s onset. Once she dressed, the older woman handed her one of two pieces of parchment. “Face me,” she said then, and Clarke did so obediently, watching out of the corner of her eyes as the woman proceeded to sketch the scars along her temples.

It took only a minute before it was done, the scars far less complex, and Clarke nodded her gratitude when she was handed the second piece of parchment.

Gently, she set the papers down on the bar, considering the sketch of her back first.

Long arching lines signified the profile of her back, while at least twenty lines twisted and curled around each other.

From her left shoulder a single line swirled and arched along her shoulder blade before entwining in a rough infinity symbol at the middle of her back. The infinity symbol fed into another arching spiral along her right shoulder blade. These were the only independent lines, as the rest were shorter and less intricate. On her lower left back were several vertical lines, an inch above them a crude circle with two curves forming the perimeter, and two more curling around the interior. A solid line down her spine created quadrants almost, where in the lower right quadrant what appeared to be a moon, sun, and star were made up of no more than five lines.

The center of her upper back showed a series of curving lines, forming what appeared to be flames, and more of those vertical lines, this time encompassed by the flames.  
There were other stray marks, but the more Clarke stared at them, the more she realized she was clueless to any real meaning.

When she turned her attention to the second paper she saw an outline of her face. On each temple was a single arching line, similar to the outline of a recurve bow, and a single asterisk was at the inner center of each line, near the edge of her eyes.

“Murchof,” Clarke whispered, fingers lightly grazing the perimeter of the sketches, knowing that the charcoal would not have set yet, and actually tracing the lines would only smudge the drawing. “Can I come back for these?” she asked after a moment, glancing up to find the woman studying her with a small, sad smile.

“Sha, of course.”

Clarke considered the drawings one last time before she nodded her farewell and left the healer’s home, the sketches burned into her mind’s eye.

As she walked through Trikova, she caught the occasional look from passersby, but most just ignored her, more concerned with their families and hunting enough food for the winter.

Eventually, Clarke reached the inn and found Roan talking to a young woman, no more than fifteen or sixteen. They seemed to be negotiating something, but whenever Clarke entered the inn and the younger woman’s eyes flicked up, Roan stopped whatever he was saying and nodded curtly. He murmured something last minute to the girl, then stood and turned away, walking toward Clarke with a mixture of frustration and weariness in the set of his jaw.

“Come on,” he said quietly as he passed her, and Clarke followed him back into the brunt of the wind.

Roan had not told her where her captor was being held, but before long she knew they were going outside of the village to find him. For a moment she feared they were going back to the cavern, but then they left the village on the opposite side of the cave and she relaxed minutely.

They just entered the cover of the trees whenever Clarke heard a muted groan, and she tightened her grip on the hilt of her knife.

“Are you ready?” Roan asked, and without hesitation, she nodded, a grim set to her lips. He considered her for half a moment before taking them deeper into the woods, until at last the groaning grew louder and Clarke saw him strung up to a tree.

Fear and anger knotted her stomach. Half of her wanted to run while the other half of her wanted to thrust her knife into his chest and be done with it already.

For the first time Clarke really looked at the man. The circles beneath his eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks was different, she knew, and it left her wondering how long she had been unconscious. Days? A week? The way his pale skin seemed to barely cover his cheekbones made her think it was nearing a week.

Even with his apparent starvation, his muscular build was evident. Even starved, this splita had more muscle than she did. 

Certainly less of a conscience.

Roan stepped forward and glowered at the captor. “Honon, do you have anything to say?”

The man squinted at Clarke and a seedy little smile spread across his face. “You clean up nicely, Skaigada.”

Clarke moved without comprehending what she was doing, the edge of her blade pressed against his carotid artery. The only thing stopping her was Roan’s gentle hand on her forearm, preventing her from applying even an ounce more pressure. “Wait,” Roan murmured, anger and gentleness warring in his tone.

All gentleness was removed when Roan turned back to the man. “The scars,” Roan said slowly, precisely. “Tell her what they mean.”

The man smiled cruelly. “Which do you mean, King? Her back? Her face? Her womanhood?”

Roan snarled, fingers slipping from her forearm as he slammed the side of his fist into the trunk of the tree, only inches away from the man’s head. Clarke had no doubt that if her blade were not already pressed to the coward’s neck, then the king would have tortured him for days. Cut him, burned him, maybe even had him castrated.

Clarke glanced at the king from the corner of her eyes and watched him slowly reel in his temper. Although the growl remained in his voice, he specified. “Her back.”

Her captor barked in laughter, uncaring of the bead of blood that slid down his neck. “They tell your story, Skaigada. How you slaughtered hundreds of Maunon. How you burned Trikru troops. How you fell from the sky and became Wanheda. How you defeated A.L.I.E.”

Confusion stopped her from slicing his throat the moment he stopped talking. “Why?” she asked after a moment.

He winked and she pulled the knife back and thrusted her knee hard into his groin. The moment he was done squirming from the pain, the edge of the blade was replaced and she leaned forward. “Why?” she asked again.

“So we could set up the King here. Discard your body at the edge of the Azgeda border and let your people find you with Azgeda scarring.”

Clarke processed his words quickly. “You wanted a war.”

“We want him dead,” the man flicked his gaze to Roan.

Roan, previously unmoving, nodded. “And her temple.”

“They mark you as Skaikru and Azgeda.”

She frowned. She had one more question before she would kill him. “You could have given me much worse scars. Why did you not?”

A flicker of something flashed in the man’s eyes, but Roan answered for him. “He used to deliver our scars,” he said, and perhaps if Clarke knew him better she could have discerned the thin layer of regret in the king’s voice. “Even our splita honor our stories; our scars.”

Clarke glanced at Roan inquisitively, her eyes speaking for her: Should I wait?

“He is yours,” he murmured, and Clarke had no doubt that he was watching every little move she made. Every minute twitch, until the split moment she sliced the man’s throat.

It didn’t make her feel better. It might have made her feel worse, in all honesty, but right then, she felt nothing. She felt numb as the man’s warm blood coated her knuckles before she could pull her blade back. When she looked back at Roan she saw a flash of something in his icy gaze, but it was gone before she could read into it, and she was too exhausted to care right then anyhow.

“Will you be ready to leave at sunrise tomorrow?”

Clarke nodded, cleaned her blade, and sheathed it.

“Good, your mother and Bellamy should arrive soon. They are welcome to stay at the inn.”

And with that, Roan and Clarke left the woods in silence, and sure enough, the moment they entered the center of town, Clarke heard her name, followed by rushed footsteps.

In a whirlwind of instinct and hypersensitivity, Clarke reached for her blade at the same moment Roan snatched her wrist, fingers biting too hard into her flesh, but it was just enough to draw her back into reality. Mere moments later Abby practically crashed into her daughter, who was too busy processing her inability to recognize the voice of her own mother.

Clarke slowly relaxed into her mother’s embrace and Roan released her, shooting a pointed look at Bellamy who stared uncertainly at the woman he loved.

Eventually, Abby pulled back from her daughter but Bellamy stayed where he was, instead offering a strained smile.

After a moment of tense silence between the four, Roan stepped forward slightly and addressed Clarke. “Sunrise,” was all he said before fixing her with a stare that seemed to say, _don’t stab anyone while I’m gone_. Clarke nodded almost imperceptibly before turning her attention back to her mother and Bellamy, who barely even looked Roan’s direction as he walked off.

“Did the hosa tell you what happened?” Clarke asked finally.

Tears swelled in her mother’s eyes and Clarke felt her heart wrench painfully in her chest. She had hoped the rider would not have said anything, but she supposed it was no surprise. Of course her people would need convincing that she wasn’t held against her will in some sort of political ploy to instigate war.

“I’m so sorry,” Abby whispered and pulled Clarke back into her arms. After a moment of hesitance, Clarke rested her chin on her mother’s shoulder and returned the hug, but it felt strange. Clarke felt strange. As though out of everything she had done, this was what had changed her the most. She almost regretted that the most recent tragedy in her life wasn’t inscribed on her back as well.

“I’ve asked Roan to train me,” she murmured and slowly pulled back. “I’ll be teaching his healers what I can in exchange.”

Neither Abby nor Bellamy looked happy about the news, but neither outright protested. Instead, they stared at the blonde haired woman with differing expressions; Abby with distrust for Roan, and Bellamy with helpless anger for the circumstance.

“Do you trust him?” Bellamy asked, mindful of potential listeners.

She considered his question honestly, but she knew her answer the moment he voiced his concern: yes. It went beyond Roan saving her. It was the look in his eyes when he considered her; as though she were not broken and unsalvageable. As though she were a victim, but she had the strength and ability to decide not to be.

It was especially the haunted look in his eye that told her he was familiar with this type of crime, somehow. It had felt personal, back in that cave, when Roan made sure at least one of her captors were alive. It was personal; that snarl in the woods no more than half an hour earlier.

Clarke nodded and smiled reassuringly. “It will only be for the winter.”

Bellamy took a deep breath. “What do you want us to tell the others?”

It was something she had already considered and talked to Roan about that morning. “Tell them it’s a political exchange,” she said, repeating Roan’s advice to her. “Tell them I’m hoping we can establish trade between our people.”

“When do you leave?” Abby asked, expression a mixture of not wanting to be separated from her daughter, but also acceptance.

“Sunrise,” Clarke answered ruefully. “Roan said you can stay in the inn overnight and leave for Arkadia tomorrow. We can get dinner at the inn as well.”

Abby smiled tightly and Clarke took their silence as agreement. “The inn’s this way,” she said and guided her mother and friend through the small village, noting they received far more looks than Clarke had on her own.


	4. All the King's Horse's [Karmina]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to all the readers, commenters, kudos-givers, and bookmarkers! I'm thrilled to see this story get such a positive response. I'm open to any suggestions, whether they're writing based or story based. 
> 
> Just a few notes/comments. 
> 
> For one, I'm procrastinating a 20 page ethics paper really bad, and as a result I'm posting this early. I'm an awful person though, so I plan on skipping my class tomorrow and hashing out the paper. As such, I'll probably still update this Sunday. [Sidenote: Mercifully, in one year I'm graduating, so instead of working 30 hours a week plus 17 credits, I'll only be working 40 hours a week :D ]
> 
> Two, I rode a horse once. That same horse bit my shoulder. Needless to say, I know very little about horses or riding horses, but I tried to portray it as accurately as I could. 
> 
> And three, I thought I mentioned this in the first chapter's notes, but I didn't. The chapter titles are actually songs, and the artists' names are in brackets. These are songs that I listened to while writing the chapter. Some of the songs have lyrics related to the chapter itself, but others I drew inspiration from the music itself. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy.

****

**Chapter Four**

_“Be careful,” Bellamy murmured against her ear, one arm wrapped tight around her lower back with one hand threaded into her hair. She returned his hug just as tightly and pushed down the nagging thought that it meant so much more for him than it did for her. He was a fellow leader, and over their months on earth he became one of her closest friends, but she did not love him. Not the way he loved her._

_A selfish part of her prayed that he wouldn’t say it, and yet she wasn’t surprised in the slightest when he pulled back and caught her light gaze with his dark one. She watched the flicker of uncertainty in those chestnut brown orbs, and then the uncertainty disappeared. “Just in case I don’t get to say it again,” he furrowed his brows and offered a chagrined smile, “I love you, Clarke.”_

_Before Clarke could even come up with a response, he shook his head. “I know you don’t feel the same. I just wanted to get it out there.” He laughed deprecatingly and ran a hand through his inky black curls. “Maybe I can convince you to give me a shot when you come back a badass.”_

“Stop.” 

His command was quiet, but it jarred her out of her head as quickly as if he shouted. With a scowl, she glanced around them, expecting to find some sort of threat or barrier to further travel, and when she found none she shot an inquisitive glance at Roan. Rather than justify their sudden halt, he gestured for her to dismount.  
After a moment of hesitance, she shifted her weight and winced when the change in pressure shot a spasm of pain through her. She attempted to hide the evidence in her face and bent her head so her loose hair created a curtain, but the attempt was defeated when her feet hit the grassy ground and a small hiss escaped her parted lips. 

In an effort to distract herself and avoid catching the Ice Nation king’s heavy stare, she patted the beautiful bay’s neck, noticing not for the first time the special care taken in grooming these elegant beasts. 

“Here,” she heard to her left and reluctantly she flicked her gaze from the horse to Roan’s furrowed brow and extended hand. After a moment of confusion she recognized the packet of berries and seeds and she accepted it with a small nod of gratitude. 

Neither of them spoke as they ate their lunch early, though Clarke’s thoughts were plenty loud enough as she slowly chewed each berry, savoring the bittersweet juice as it spread across her tongue. 

_Skepticism lingered in her mother’s gaze, and Clarke felt her stomach churn at the thought of leaving her mother on negative terms. By now, she knew there was no guarantee she would see anyone again. There were no guarantees in life, especially not on this planet. “I promise I’ll come back,” Clarke smiled reassuringly._

_“You know Octavia could train you. Or Bellamy.”_

_But Clarke was shaking her head the moment Abby attempted to namedrop people back in Arkadia that could train her. “I need this,” Clarke said with quiet determination._

_“And we need you.”_

“Clarke.” 

Clarke blinked back into reality, silently cursing herself. “Sorry,” she said, grimacing when she realized Roan had already mounted his palomino and was watching her, waiting for her to do the same. She quickly ate the rest of her seeds, barely tasting them, and hauled herself into the fur saddle. 

When they started off in a trot pain flared in her core and Clarke winced, breath caught in her throat as she waited for the initial wave to die down. Several minutes passed in silence before at last the pain became a dull roar in the back of her mind, constant but steady. Manageable. 

“You’re distracted,” Roan pointed out, and when Clarke chose not to comment he went on, “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No,” she answered, and it was true. Clarke wasn’t reconsidering, but her heart was heavy with her mother’s implication that she was being selfish. A part of her knew she _was_ being selfish, because there were people in Arkadia that could train her. Finding someone to train her was easy, but finding someone to teach her solidarity was far more difficult. Finding someone who viewed her as more than a princess or a peacemaker was nearly impossible in Arkadia. 

And if she were honest, there was a bit of weakness wrapped in her decision too. Fear to face those in Arkadia when she felt so broken. Fear to see the pity in the faces of those she loved--those who knew what happened. 

There were other reasons. Reasons that Clarke didn’t fully understand. But ultimately, it felt right. 

The krus were at peace. Arkadia had a surplus of food and necessities for the winter. Clarke was a leader, but not the sole leader. And regardless, she was only every viewed as Skaikru’s sole leader by the Azgeda. 

“Abby was wrong.” 

“You were listening to our conversation?” 

Clarke caught the quirk of Roan’s mouth as he guided his horse next to hers. “I was,” he admitted. “I was curious what your mother and Bellamy had to say.” 

_How did I not notice?_

“Our rooms were adjoined,” Roan answered, and Clarke cursed under her breath, realizing she spoke aloud. “My point stands.” 

“Wrong about what?” Clarke asked, brows raised. “How is my leaving now different from before?” 

Roan glanced at her briefly, a furrow between his brows. “Before you were running away from being a leader. You had no intention of returning.” 

She wanted to argue, but there was nothing she could say. A part of her had enjoyed the freedom, even if it left her alone with her thoughts. “And now I’m running away from what happened.” 

“If I believed that I wouldn’t have agreed to train you.”

“So why do you think I asked you to train me?” she asked quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind that was only partially blocked by Roan’s body and the trees around them. “How do you think I’m not a selfish coward for leaving now?” 

“You’re a good leader, Clarke, but you could be better. Lexa knew it, and I know it.” He paused, as though choosing his words carefully. “Your people don’t just follow you, they love you. But I think you realize that someone that loves you can’t train you.” 

Clarke let his words sink in for a bit until curiosity tore the question from her lips: “Who trained you?” 

Roan snorted. “My mother.” 

Understanding shot through her chest and Clarke couldn’t help the pang of sorrow for the king, though she dared not show it. He wouldn’t want it so she settled with her thoughts, watching the king sidelong as he seemed content with his own thoughts. 

It wasn’t until the sun crested in the sky that either of them spoke again. 

“ _Ha laik yun ledons >_” [How are your wounds?]

Clarke blinked, reluctantly dragging her attention from the powdery snow still clinging to the upper tree limbs, and considered Roan. Fuzzily she processed his question. _”Ait,”_ [Okay] 

“Wab’lak y’odop seiso op.” [You take too long to answer] Clarke felt his gaze but she refused to look. “If you’re going to spend the winter in our kapa [capitol] then you need to know our language. Especially when you work with our healers.” 

She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement. 

“Head.” 

Clarke shot him a curious look. “Chit?” [What?]

“I’m testing you,” he said with a shrug. “What is our word for head?” 

“ _Melon._ ” 

“ _Sha._ Chest.” 

“ _Tombom._ ” 

“Foot.” 

“ _Fut._ ” 

“Where are you hurt?” 

“ _Weron ste yu laksen?_ ” 

And so they went back and forth, and despite having to think for a moment before each answer, Clarke realized she knew far more of their language than she expected. 

***

Later that evening, Clarke gathered firewood while Roan tended to the horses and prepared their small camp for the night. Despite her protests that she could start a fire, Roan took the wood from her and set to work, instructing her to sit down. Reluctantly, she did, quietly sighing her relief as her lower back muscles relaxed. 

Shortly after Roan started the fire he pulled out two packs of seared venison, skewering each on a sharpened stick before cooking them over the fire. 

“Your mother says you’ve been apprenticing under her,” Roan said absently, though he did not raise his gaze from the fire. He spun the skewer to heat the other side. 

Clarke stared at him. “You talked to my mom?”

Roan smirked. “She threatened that if anything happened to you she would kill me.” 

She swore under her breath and repressed the urge to groan in exasperation. Roan must have heard her though because he chuckled. 

“It’s fine, Clarke, you’re mother doesn’t concern me.”

“That makes one of us,” Clarke muttered, accepting her share of dinner with a small smile, her stomach quietly grumbling the moment the scent reached her nose. The meat was dry but flavorful, and she ate it quickly to prevent the wind from cooling it down too much. 

Once they finished dinner, Roan focused on her. “When we get to the kapa, you’ll be staying in the houlaida,” [capitol, castle] Clarke nodded in acknowledgement and shifted closer to the fire, turning her open palms toward the flames. “Some will accept you immediately, either because I’m bringing you or because of your namesake. Most will want you dead though.” 

“Why?” Clarke asked quietly. 

Roan shrugged. “You’re an outside with the scars of our warriors. People will want to challenge you to see if you’re deserving.” 

“And if I tell them what really happened?” 

“Don’t.” 

She nodded. 

“The only ones who should know the truth should be the healer that tends to you and my guards.” He frowned. “I expect you to have a guard with you any time you leave the houlaida. At least until you can fend for yourself.” 

Another nod. 

“For the first couple of weeks I want you to just work as a healer. Don’t try teaching anyone until they’ve seen what you can do. Otherwise, you’ll work with Veyz as my personal healer, should the need arise.” Roan seemed to consider her for a moment and Clarke focused on the flames, pretending not to notice the weight of his attention. “I’ll teach you how to fight in the mornings and evenings. Two hours each session.” 

The idea of training four hours a day left Clarke excited and anxious. Her time on the ground had shaped her body in subtle ways: mostly, it gave her more scars than she could count, but along the way the subtle curves of muscle were carved. Four hours was a lot though, and a part of her suspected she would be living as a sore pulp for the remainder of winter. 

“You’re risking a lot by bringing me in.” He didn’t say anything, though when she glanced over at him she found him looking up at the sky, a weary sage in his shoulders. “I don’t understand why?” 

“You asked me to teach you to fight; you agreed to teach my healers. Why do you think there’s more to it than that?” 

Clarke tilted her head, considering letting her question drop as she recalled the king’s reactions the past couple of days. She quickly dismissed the idea though. She had brought it, she may as well follow through. “I can see this is personal for you.” 

“Can you now?” Roan asked quietly, a bite of sarcasm edging his tone. 

“You don’t have to answer,” she said after a moment of tense silence, and rather than continue to study him, she got to her feet and stretched slowly, noting the sore tug at most of her core muscles. With a brief glance his direction, only to find him fixated with the fire, Clarke wandered to one of the fur bedrolls and eased herself down. 

By the time she curled up on her side and tugged the leather and fur blanket over her shoulders, she had stopped expecting a response. And yet she heard Roan stand and claim the other bedroll, a weary sigh tugged from his lips as he lied on his back, staring up at the sky. “All you need to know is those _splita_ hurt someone I used to know.” 

Before she even processed it, Clarke asked, “What happened to them?” 

Again, she received no response for some time. Then he rolled on his side so his back was to her, “They died.” 

She heard the tension in his voice and the thin layer of sorrow that he couldn’t quite push down, and she knew it wasn’t her place to ask anymore of him. Certainly not tonight. 

Instead she settled into silence, counting each of the king’s breaths until she finally fell asleep herself.


	5. We Don't Need Another Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you so much to those that have read, commented, bookmarked, or left kudos! I just realized I can reply directly to comments, so I plan on going through and doing that tomorrow. 
> 
> Second, I'm sorry this is late. Finals are kicking my ass and I've been looking for a temp job since I'm getting radio silence from the job I was supposed to start next week. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this next chapter. :D

****

**Chapter Five**

_| ~ We Don’t Need Another Hero ~ |_

|Karliene|

_“They’ll be watching,” Roan warned her as they neared the edge of the Azgeda capitol. “I know you’re in pain. Don’t let that show, or they’ll think you’re weak.”_

The king’s words resonated in the recesses of her mind as they breached the clearing. 

Each time they passed a cabin more onlookers peered out their windows or stood by their front doors. Uncertainty was apparent in the weight of their stares and muted comments, and for a moment Clarke found it difficult to breathe. 

Her panic quickly dissolved when an echo of Lexa commanded, _Breathe, Clarke_. Slowly, she obeyed the familiar voice and eased her death grip on the reins. As she exhaled she straightened her spine and lifted her head slightly, resolving herself to steel. 

_“Don’t make it obvious when you look around. They’ll be plenty of time for you to explore later.”_

As they rode deeper into the Ice Nation capitol, Clarke peered out of the corners of her eyes, considering their onlookers. She found it difficult to separate their warriors from their tradesmen for everyone had a weapon attached somewhere--usually two or three. Even a younger woman with bright auburn hair and a rounded belly had twin swords strapped to her back. 

Clarke noticed the woman’s fingers, lightly wrapped around the hilt of one sword, and watched as they tightened until Roan and her drew level with the woman. A split second interaction between Roan and his subject and the pregnant woman bowed her head, turning on heel with a grace Clarke would not have expected of someone looking to burst at any moment. 

_“You’re not Azgeda. You’re not mine. Don’t bow to me but don’t do anything that would undermine me.”_

At the outer edge of the marketplace, near the center of the capitol, they dismounted and handed off their horses to the stable keep. Once again, Clarke noticed the gleam of distrust in the older man’s faded grey eyes.

“The marketplace will be busy,” Roan told her quietly. “Stay close.” 

Clarke heard his unspoken warning: _if you stray, I may not find you before someone kills you._

She nodded in understanding and then they entered the throng of people. 

It was just as busy as the marketplace in Polis, with adults bustling through the streets and idling at the stalls. Clarke was immediately affronted by the dull roar of people negotiating trades and purchases, chatting with friends, and children dashing around, invested in some sort of game. The deeper they wandered into the marketplace, the more Clarke was consumed in its normalcy. 

In a lot of ways, it was less militaristic than Arkadia. Children were allowed to run about without their parents calling after them in concern and instead of the select few carrying weapons, everyone carried one, including the children. 

For the first time she actually considered trade between their people, beyond just an excuse for those back in Arkadia. Mindful of letting her attention linger anywhere for too long, she swept the stands quickly, noting the skill of their blacksmiths and tailors, but their general lack of food. 

Someone bumped into her shoulder and Clarke sidestepped, quickly getting out of the way of a woman a few inches taller than her with a longbow slung across her back. Clarke thought she heard the woman utter an Azgedasleng curse, but there was no time for her to dwell as she jogged a bit to keep up with Roan. 

_He’s taking a big risk bringing you in._ And again she wondered what his previous experience was with the _splita_. He’d let on that they’d done something similar to someone he knew, but who? Why? 

Eventually they passed the healer’s are and Clarke fell a few steps behind as she took a couple extra moments to contemplate everything. 

It was a large, dome-shaped cabin with a raised roof and log walls. In the center of the roof was a chimney, tendrils of smoke filling the blue-grey sky. Although she couldn’t see inside the structure she could smell the strong scent of alcohol and she was reminded of the sterile odor that clung to medical bay back in Arkadia. 

“Wanheda,” Clarke tore her stare from the cabin with some reluctance and met Roan’s frown with an apologetic nod. “You’ll meet Veyz tomorrow,” he told her as they moved a bit quicker through the rest of the marketplace. 

Before long they reached the castle and Clarke took in as much of the view as she could while keeping up with Roan’s brisk pace. 

Architecturally, the castle was symmetrical in almost every exterior capacity. In the front were two large columns at either corner. Windows spanned each of the three floors and Clarke could mentally picture spiral staircases in each column. 

While the columns were built with dark stone, the rest of the castle was built from lighter stones, emphasizing the ornate ridges and parapet walk at the top floor. A thin dusting of snow coated the pointed rooftops. 

Halfway across the courtyard, they were met by four guards; two men and two women, each with a spear and various swords, knives, and axes strapped to their sides and backs. Behind the guards, Clarke spotted a familiar face. 

In the same instant, the dark haired woman noticed Clarke and her lip curled in distaste. Her expression was quickly smoothed as she flicked her attention back to Roan and bowed her head slightly. “My King.” 

“Echo,” Roan greeted briefly. “I suspect the council is frustrated by my absence.” 

“A lot has happened,” Echo acknowledged, the slightest edge to her voice. “They won’t be happy given new circumstances.” 

Roan nodded and Clarke noticed the twinge of his jaw as he directed his attention to her. “You’ll start working as a healer the day after tomorrow. I expect you to be ready by sunrise tomorrow.” 

“ _Sha_ ,” Clarke answered, subconsciously slipping into the language Roan had tested her on for the past two days. She thought she noticed a glint of approval in his eyes, but she could not be sure before he went on. 

“Blair, would you take Wanheda to a spare quarter?” 

Clarke noticed a guardswoman with soft brown hair step forward, silently gesturing for her to follow. 

Wordlessly, she did. Neither of them spoke as Blair guided her up the spiral staircase, but Clarke was satisfied with the silence. It gave her the chance to notice the smaller details as they went: the occasional chip in the wall, the chilly breeze each time they passed another window, and the guard at each floor. 

Eventually they stopped at a door on the third floor and Clarke nodded her gratitude. “ _Murchof_.” 

Blair considered Clarke for a long moment before returning the nod, curiosity making her cat-green gaze sparkle. “Why are you here, _Klark com Skaikru?_ Why do you speak our language?” 

Clarke held her tongue as she realized that she and Roan hadn’t discussed how honest he intended to be with his people. Furthermore, she had no idea who this guard was or how privy she was to the king’s decisions. 

Despite her uncertainty, she had to offer some sort of answer and she decided to settle on the truth: “I asked your king to train me. In exchange, I will work as a healer.” Noticing the woman’s raised brow, she sighed and added, “I was attacked by the _splita_.” 

Recognition sparked in the woman’s face, but it was gone in the same moment. “ _Shopta?_ ” [How are you?]

“ _Ait, ai kik raun._ ” [Okay, I will live]

Blair nodded approvingly and smiled wistfully. “I hope you do.”


	6. Still Alive [Mirror's Edge]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that's still reading this! And I'm sorry for the delay. Per usual, things have been hectic. My fiance and I have a puppy now, I finally got a job offer, and I've been to too many BBQ's these past couple of days. 
> 
> Anyways, these next couple of chapters are going to be a bit different. Originally, I wrote out Clarke's first few days in the Ice Nation capitol, and these days had spanned chapters 6-9. Honestly, reading through these days was boring, so I ended up taking these scenes and consolidating them to a few flashbacks through chapters 6-9. This has let me focus on more significant events and move the story along. That being said, chapter 6 is rather short, but chapter 7 is roughly 4,000 words. I hope to post chapter 7 tonight. (emphasis on hope)
> 
> If anyone is interested, I would be happy to post these in a separate "extended chapters" 'fic, which would basically read as a series of one-shots, two-shots, or three-shots. These extended chapters wouldn't be necessary to follow the plot of this story, otherwise I would have incorporated them here, but they could give more insight to Clarke's thoughts and interactions with other characters.

**__**

**Chapter Six**

**_Day One_ **

Clarke was drawn into consciousness by the unsettling sensation of someone watching her, followed by the cool sting of a blade at her throat.

Fear shot through her veins and it was all she could do to focus on the unsteady rhythm of her heart, staving off the panic that left her limbs aching to move. Frustration and disappointment chased the heels of fear as she wondered if this would be how she died: stealthily killed while she lay in bed. 

In a matter of seconds she processed the pitter patter of emotions and then she dragged her gaze along the crisp edge of the sword to the weapon’s wielder, only to be rewarded with silent relief. 

“I told you to be ready by sunrise,” he reminded her with an arched brow and a quirked lip. 

He pulled the blade back and Clarke took a deep breath that faded into a yawn. Gently, she brushed her fingers along the shallow cut wrapping around the hollow of her throat, collecting the small beads of blood there. She didn’t ask what he would have done if she’d lurched forward in her sleep; she had no doubt that he could have moved the sword away fast enough, or he wouldn’t have done it. “Fiya,” [sorry] she murmured as she sat up and tossed the fur covers off of her. 

The burst of cool air about her legs made her freeze for half a second, but before embarrassment or modesty could stain her cheeks red, she heard Roan curse under his breath. “You tore your stitches,” he pointed out. 

Clarke glanced at her inner thigh and winced when she noticed the dried blood there. Vaguely, she recalled removing her leather pants before crawling into bed last night, the soreness of travel and old wounds lending to her negligence. As she shifted to conceal the blood, she felt a twinge of pain, further shaming her. 

“It happened yesterday, didn’t it?” he asked as he crossed her room with shocking familiarity. He sounded frustrated, but Clarke could hear the tinge of concern as he slipped into the bathroom. 

After a moment he returned with a damp cloth and handed it to her. “Sha,” she admitted and ignored the flush of her cheeks and neck as Roan turned to offer her some privacy while she tended to herself as best she could. “I planned on doing what I could last night and seeing a healer today.” 

Roan made a sound in the back of his throat. “I imagine after training?” he sounded unhappy at that, and Clarke reluctantly acknowledged that that had been her plan. 

Once Clarke pulled on her pants, Roan turned to face her, a deep scowl between his brows. “It isn’t strength to ignore wounds when not in battle, Clarke.” 

“I fell asleep,” she protested, but even as she said it she knew it was a weak excuse. It sounded childish to her own ears, and it was the very thing she would chastise a patient for. 

“And if it was a head injury, you’d likely be dead by now,” he half growled at her, and before either of them could go on snapping at each other he sighed. “I’m not training you this morning. Blair will show you around the castle and the _kapa_ today. I’ll have a healer come by in an hour.” 

Roan turned on heel and left her quarter, leaving in his wake an air of disappointment that clawed at Clarke’s chest. It reminded her just how isolated she was. How many people did she even know here? Roan. Echo. 

Two people, and Echo hated her, so really she only had one person. 

_You’re alone here, blindly trusting Roan for protection, and you’re here until the end of winter at the least._

“What was I thinking?” Clarke whispered to herself as she stared at the far wall, memories of her mother’s own concerns heckling her. 

_”Why do you trust him so much?” Abby asked, but even as she asked it acceptance mixed with condemnation was evident in the furrow of her brow and the twist of her mouth._

_In place of an answer, Clarke took a step back and heaved a quiet sigh. “Mom, do you trust me?”_

_“Right now, I’m not so sure,” Abby said with a rueful shake of her head. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience; I don’t think you’re thinking this through.”_

“Too late now,” she muttered, and in an effort to distract herself she wandered around the room. 

She noted the large tub and pile of towels in the bathroom; the wooden wardrobe pushed opposite of the bed; the small burlap bag on the bedside table. As she went to see what was in the bag, she spotted the sheathed sword and plate of food on top of the honey oak breakfast table. 

Curiously, she collected each item and brought it back to her bed, munching on a piece of bread as she untied the bag. Slowly she pulled out a small, leather pouch of coins, followed by Rebeka’s sketches, and a change of clothes. 

Guilt gnawed at her stomach when she turned to the sword and noticed a piece of parchment with crisp handwriting: _Keep this with you._


	7. Human [Rag'n'Bone Man]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just quick note: I ended up splitting chapter 7 into two chapters. This is the first part; I'll post the next part in a couple hours. These next couple of chapters are where the pacing gets a bit weird, so that's what's up with the "Day X" headings. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D

****

**Day Two**

When they walked into the healer’s cabin, the sense of familiarity that enveloped Clarke was enough for her to forget the many aches and pains that plagued her body. Most people hated the sterile scent that hung around medical wards, but for Clarke it was home. It embodied the security she felt when she healed others; the confidence that surged through her veins when she could focus on saving people, not war or politics or bloodshed.

She flicked her gaze over the series of beds lining two of the four walls. At least half of them were occupied and most of the healers were already tending to someone, dashing between the back of the cabin where it appeared the supplies were kept and their patients. 

Before Clarke could continue scoping out the medical ward, she heard footsteps to her right, followed by the raspy greeting, “ _Klark come Skaikru_.” She switched her attention from the various patients and healers to the tall, dark haired man before her. He was well aged, perhaps in his late fifties or early sixties, with deep lines around his faded grey eyes and gaunt cheeks. His scars were prominent despite his wrinkles and Clarke found herself studying them curiously. They were far simpler than Roan’s, or even her own, with only a diagonal line from his hairline to the edge of either eye. 

Absently, Clarke noted to ask Roan or Blair why the Ice Nation’s scars varied so greatly from person to person. 

Clarke nodded in greeting but made no other movement. She was sharp enough to hear the disdain in this man’s voice and she knew any friendly gesture would be dismissed, just as it had with countless others yesterday. 

If Clarke were honest with herself, she hardly blamed the merchants and warriors of the kapa for dismissing her. She was Skaikru; the foreigners from space held accountable for A.L.I.E. How many of these men and women had lost someone close to them? How many of them had legitimate reason to hate her people? Clarke would guess the majority.  
It was one of many boundaries she would have to overcome if there was hope for trade between their people. 

And looking at their medical tent, she could see what they needed. Maybe not desperately, but needed nonetheless. 

“I do not agree with you being here,” the man told her, and after a moment Clarke realized this was the main healer Roan had told her about. This was Veyz. 

“I understand,” Clarke said honestly.

She was met with a flicker of surprise, but it was quickly replaced with a hard frown. “I expect you to stay on standby. We don’t need your help.” He turned on heel and left, and Clarke repressed the urge to scowl at his back. If he wanted her to stay back, then that’s what she would do for the meantime.

**Day Four**

Four days into Clarke’s stay in the Ice Nation’s capitol and things had gone well overall.

Her old wounds were completely healed, and aside from the mottled blues, purples, and yellows that decorated her arms, legs, and torso, she felt better. Stronger. 

Furthermore, her relationship with Veyz had improved. Although they were far from friendly, the older man had accepted she was not incompetent in healing, even if she was in fighting. It certainly made her life easier at work, where she had taken to setting broken bones and stitching minor injuries. 

Life was simpler than it had ever been during her short time on the planet, and it was actually rejuvenating to focus on training and healing alone. Anything that happened in Arkadia was out of her hands, and while part of her mind festered all sorts of horrific scenarios that could be happening back home, the realistic part of her mind knew things were likely just fine. Between the council and the surplus of goods for the winter, Arkadia was probably better off than the Ice Nation right now. 

Which left Clarke contemplating her discussion with Roan last night. 

_”I want to help hunt for food,” she said near the end of their training session. Despite her chest heaving and the sweat dripping from her brow, she spoke evenly._

_“Why?” Roan arched a brow as he studied her, arms folded over his chest._

_“I can see the food shortage.” Unlikely as it was that someone was eavesdropping, Clarke pitched her voice lower and stepped closer to the king. “The kids around here are a wealth of information,” her eyes twinkled as she recalled all the gossip she knew thanks to the kids._

_Surprise flickered in his gaze before he erased it, lips twisted as he considered her words. “I’m surprised they’re so open with you.”_

_Clarke shrugged. “It’s part of the job; calming people down. Plus, kids tend not to have a filter--even Azgeda children.”_

_“And you think if you go out hunting you can help the shortage?” He posed it as a question, but Clarke quickly realized it wasn’t skepticism that spawned the king’s curiosity, but something else._

_“Maybe not much, but I want to do what I can.”_

_Roan considered the star-filled sky for awhile before he nodded. “Fine, but you have to get Blair to agree to come with you.”_

Clarke thought Roan expected that to be far more difficult than it had been. In reality, the moment Clarke suggested the idea to Blair, the guardswoman had jumped at the opportunity and they quickly figured out when they would go and for how long. 

She wondered if the king would be frustrated at how easy it was to convince Blair. 

“Clarke, there’s a boy in the far bed with a broken leg, go tend to him.” 

Clarke blinked out of her thoughts and nodded briefly in acknowledgement, but Veyz had already ambled off to direct other healers. Unbothered, she made her way to a young boy, no more than ten or eleven, with a mop of ebony hair and bright green eyes. Despite the unnatural twist of his right knee, the boy was calm, the only sign of his pain the white-knuckled grip he had on the edges of the bed. 

“ _Hei, chit yu tagon? Ai laik Klark._ ” [What is your name? I am Clarke]

The boy offered a small smile that faltered when Clarke lightly probed the area around his knee, confirming whether the bone was broken or only dislocated. “Ruben.” 

“ _Ha don yu en laksen?_ ” [How did you get hurt?]

“Father and I were training,” he explained, and though his pronunciation was imprecise, he managed well enough and Clarke mentally catalogued that he was training to be a warrior. Their warriors were taught both Azgedasleng and English, while the tradesmen were only taught English if they travelled or interacted with travellers. 

Clarke smiled and patted the boy’s arm lightly. “Well, Ruben, your knee isn’t broken, but your kneecap is dislocated.” 

The boy nodded, but his face scrunched up in confusion and Clarke went on to explain.

She tapped his left kneecap. “You can think of this bone like a hat, or a piece of armor. It protects all the stuff inside your knee, but like a hat, it can slip off. Your kneecap has slid off a bit,” as she spoke she moved her fingers to the boy’s right knee and gently she moved the bone back into place, noting the boy’s sharp inhale. “And now it’s back into place.” 

Ruben’s eyes grew wide as he looked down at his knee, then back at Clarke. “That’s it?” 

Clarke smiled. “That’s it. Let me just wrap it up. I need you to stay off your leg for a couple days, okay?” 

Ruben nodded, his brows still furrowed in surprise as Clarke turned to gather a few pieces of cloth. She tied off the cloth behind the boy’s knee, but before she could help him slide off the bed, she heard a sharp command, ““ _Hod op!_ Stop pushing!”

Recognizing the voice, Clarke turned and found the dark haired woman with sea green eyes crouched between another woman’s legs. It was the same woman that had stitched Clarke’s wounds her first day in the capitol; the same woman that gave her a clean bill of health just that morning. 

Flicking her attention from Rydia to her patient, Clarke found the young pregnant woman from the outskirts of the _kapa_. Based on the taut scrunch of her face and the trembled in her arms as she grabbed the bed above her head, she was in labor. 

Unthinking, Clarke crouched beside Rydia and pitched her voice low, fear for the pregnant woman and her baby singing through her veins. “What’s going on?” 

Rydia shot her a sidelong glance and scowled. After a moment her doubt wavered and she sighed. “I think it’s the cord.” She paused, attention fixated on the blood coating her hands. “It’s her or the baby.” 

_It doesn’t have to be._

Clarke bit her lower lip while her mind spun with her mother’s explanation of a c-section. In her mind’s eye she saw each miniscule cut she would need to make; each layer of tissue and fat that would be exposed, until at last the baby could be removed and the woman could be stitched up. 

She had only performed two while in Arkadia, but it was a simple enough procedure. 

_We’re hardly in a sterile environment,_ Clarke thought as she considered their surroundings. They couldn’t move her, not now. _Even if you only save the baby, at least she has a chance._

“I can save them both,” Clarke whispered. Rydia scoffed but Clarke held her gaze. “Please, let me.” 

Skepticism stared back at her and Clarke found herself counting the moments, silently pleading for the Azgedan healer to let her. To trust her to save this woman. 

“Please,” she murmured again, not caring that she was begging. Every moment that they waited, was another moment she could spend saving this woman’s life, if she even could. 

“Fine, but if it comes down to it, Taisma wants her baby to live.”

“Of course,” Clarke rose quickly, cleaning her hands with alcohol before standing by Taisma. For a fearful moment Clarke recalled the woman’s initial animosity that evening they rode into the _kapa_ , and she wondered if Taisma would even let her help. Would her pride stand in the way of her own survival, when she knew that her baby could survive anyways? 

“Taisma, I think I can save you and your baby,” she spoke calmly and gently, filtering any doubt from her tone as she searched the woman’s face. 

“You think?” she asked through clenched teeth. 

“There’s no guarantee,” she admitted. 

“Do it.” 

Rather than waste time, Clarke turned to Rydia. “I need a scalpel, warm water, and plenty of cloth.” She said it as a command, but if the healer was unhappy at being treated like an apprentice, she didn’t show it as she ran across the tent and collected the requested items. 

Clarke checked the table next to her and confirmed that a suture kit was there, and then she turned her attention to pulling apart the fabric covering Taisma’s rounded belly. “Can you straighten your legs for me?” Clarke asked, gently pressing on the woman’s knees to reiterate the request. 

After a moment Taisma did as she asked and Clarke smiled reassuringly. _I wish we had anesthetic._

“Here,” Rydia said, placing each item on the table next to the suture kit. 

“Murchof.” Clarke took the scalpel in hand and sterilized it with alcohol before turning to Taisma. “I need you to hold still, okay?” Taisma nodded once before Clarke turned to Rydia. 

“I’m going to cut here,” she lightly traced the path she would cut. “I need you to be ready to staunch as much of the blood as possible. We’ll have no more than fifteen minutes to get the baby out, and then I’ll close her up.” 

“Sha.” 

“Taisma, are you ready?” Clarke asked, allowing the woman a chance to steel herself before Clarke took a deep breath herself and dragged the scalpel across the path she traced just moments ago. The stretched skin cut easily, and the blood flowed readily. 

Each step flashed in Clarke’s mind as she cut through the upper layers of fat and muscle. Although her hands were steady, her heart raced in her chest. _Apply just enough pressure to cut a balloon,_ she recalled her mother’s instructions when she reached the fascia. 

By the time she could see Taisma’s bowels the woman stopped screaming and Clarke felt the acute bite of fear in her chest. 

“I need someone to check on Taisma,” Clarke commanded, never taking her attention away from her task as she made a few more cuts to the peritoneum before revealing the womb. With a feather light touch, Clarke dragged the scalpel across the lower part of the womb and gently guided her fingers along the underside of the baby’s head. With gentle but firm movements, Clarke pulled the baby free from the womb, severed the umbilical cord, and handed the fleshy, screaming baby to the nearest person: Blair. 

“She’s barely breathing,” Rydia reported. 

“I’m stitching her up now.” Clarke said as she prepared to suture the uterine cut. After a minute she had this incision sutured and she started replacing each additional layer of flesh and muscle. Finally, she started stitching up the fascia. “How is she doing?” Clarke asked as she finished the last suture and applied an adhesive salve to join the skin. 

“Same condition,” Rydia answered and Clarke glanced up to see her wiping a damp cloth across the young woman’s forehead. 

As Clarke bandaged the incision site, she mentally went through each cut, noting where she could have done better and considering whether anything she did could lead to this woman’s death. Before she left Taisma’s side she offered a strained smile to Rydia. “It’s up to her now.”  
Eager to remove the thick layer of blood beginning to dry against her skin, Clarke went to the front end of the cabin where tubs of alcohol mixed with water waited for the sole purpose of healer’s washing their hands. 

But before she could reach the basins, Veyz stepped in front of her, lips twisted in a snarl and body taut. “What don’t you understand about standby?” he growled. 

Clarke frowned but didn’t say anything, realizing belatedly that despite setting broken bones and doing stitches, she was technically on standby--viewed as no more skilled than an apprentice, in the eyes of Veyz, at least. “I thought I could save her,” she said after a moment.

Anger caused his nostrils to flare as he went to grab her, and despite Clarke’s limited time training she was quick enough to evade back. Before Veyz could advance further Blair’s blade was levelled with his throat. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Blair warned, a challenging arch to her brow. 

No one dared to move as the animosity coiled between them, like a tangible substance that stole Clarke’s ability to breathe comfortably. After a moment, Veyz smiled placidly, but his eyes flashed with cruel inflection, “You better hope you saved her, Wanheda.” 

Clarke swallowed the urge to remind him that she had already met the best odds of their healers, and instead she watched as the older man left the healer’s cabin, his shoulders hunched as he retreated. 

“Thank you,” Clarke murmured, but Blair had already disappeared as well, immersed in the chaos of the healer’s cabin, leaving Clarke to contemplate whether Taisma would survive the night. 

Rather than help other patients or healers, Clarke lurked near the edges of the cabin, watching from afar as other healers tended to the baby and Rydia continued wiping Taisma forehead with a wet cloth. Near the end of the day, Clarke noticed Veyz return to the cabin, beelining for Rydia and Taisma. 

From a distance, Clarke could not make out what their conversation was about, though she imagined the older man was seeing what Rydia thought of the procedure and whether she imagined the woman would survive. Whatever Rydia told him seemed to infuriate him further as he stalked away, once again leaving the cabin. 

A few short minutes later Rydia wandered away from Taisma’s side and joined Clarke on the sidelines. “That was pretty amazing what you did back there.” 

In place of an answer, Clarke smiled and kept her gaze locked on the auburn haired woman, motionless in the bed. It was probably a trick of the mind, but Clarke thought she could see the gentle rise and fall of the woman’s chest. 

“I suspect Taisma will survive the night.” 

“I hope so,” Clarke said quietly, reluctantly considering her fellow healer. 

“Who taught you?” 

“My mother. She’s a healer that specializes in procedures like that.” 

“Birthing?” 

“No,” Clarke shook her head. “Or not exactly. She does a lot of open procedures. We call them surgeries.” 

“And people usually survive these?” 

“ _Sha_. But we usually do them in sterile environments.” 

“Do you think Taisma will live through the night?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke answered honestly, picking a fleck of crimson stubbornly clinging to the palm of her hand. “As long as she doesn’t get an infection, I hope so.” 

Rydia nodded, seeming content with her answers for now. “Veyz expects you to come check on her later tonight.” 

Clarke grimaced, unsurprised but dreading it all the same. “Of course.”


	8. It Takes A Lot to Know A Man [Damien Rice]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those who continue to read/respond to this story :D 
> 
> Honestly, I feel like these past couple of chapters have been at their own, unique stage of editing so I do want to apologize for that...during the academic year I work with college students to help them improve their writing, so I'm a bit edited out right about now. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy! :) I'll be including a few more scenes focused on Roan in these next few chapters...

**Day Four Cont’d**

“I’m still trying to understand why you brought Clarke here,” Blair said quietly, interrupting the tense silence as she twirled her glass of mead.

Roan took a deep breath and shifted in his seat. From the moment she invited herself into his quarters, he knew this conversation could only go one of two ways: his way or her way. So far he’d been able to push aside his oldest friend and advisor’s concerns as mere exaggerations, but the longer Clarke stayed the more tensions rose. In the _kapa_. In the local villages. Even in his own castle. 

The truth of the matter was that his rule was slowly destabilizing, and the more lives the food shortage took, the sooner his rule would end. His people saw Clarke as a figurehead for their ill fortune and wanted her dead. At the least they wanted revenge for A.L.I.E, and he was the only person standing in the way of that. 

King or no king, his protection could only extend so far. 

“Clarke cut open Taisma today.” 

“She what?” Roan’s eyes flashed to Blair’s honey brown orbs, searching their depths but finding only mischief. 

“Taisma went into labor but there were complications. Clarke cut open Taisma and took the baby out, then saved Taisma’s life.” 

Roan cursed under his breath. “It’s been how many days since she started?” 

Blair laughed and took another sip. “Three.” Roan made a face and she arched a brow. “Really, what did you expect? She’s a leader, not an apprentice.” 

He glared at the woman, but they both knew there was no real heat in it. There was too much history between them for him to pull the king card on her. Hell, Blair was the only person aside from Veyz to enter his quarters since his banishment. “She also has a deathwish.” 

Blair conceded with a small nod. “Veyz wasn’t happy.” 

Roan sighed. “I’ll talk to him.” 

“She can take care of herself, Roan.” 

He considered her with a curious look in his eyes, but he bit his tongue against what he wanted to say. 

“You know what I think you should do,” Blair pointed out. 

Roan frowned. “And you know I won’t.” 

“Then send her back to Arkadia.” 

The king clenched his jaw and held his tongue.

Blair studied him for several moments before she said, almost comfortingly, “She’s not Ava.”

“I never thought she was,” Roan snapped. 

“Then why did you bring her here?” Blair hissed. “You have to realize it’s dangerous. Not just for her but for you too. Your rule had just stabilized, and then you brought Wanheda here, to train her nonetheless.” 

“You and I both know ‘Wanheda’ is a title, nothing more. She has the combat skill of a child.” 

“And why is that your problem?” Blair asked, standing when Roan stood. “Why do you care?” 

“It’s politics,” Roan deflected with a wave of his hand, but the moment the words left his lips he mentally cursed himself. It was a horrible deflection made worse by the fact Blair was his political advisor. “I’m not blind as my mother was. I can see Skaikru has better medicine, and if we can benefit from that, then yes, I’ll train Wanheda.” 

Blair laughed, but it was short and exasperated. “You can lie to yourself all you want, Roan, but I can see through you.” 

“And just what do you think you see?” 

The woman stared at him sadly and lowered herself back to her chair. “I think you thought of Ava when you saved Clarke, and now you have a soft spot for any woman attacked by the splita. I think you’re still beating yourself up about Ava, and now you’re foolishly trying to save Clarke.” 

“Clarke doesn’t need saving,” Roan snorted and started to walk away. “I have business to attend to.”

***

Roan was moody.

It was the first thing Clarke thought when she saw the Ice Nation king. His dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, revealing the ornate curves of his scars as well as the tension around his glacial blue gaze. That tension seemed to resonate in the rest of his body as he tossed her a practice sword and extended the movement into a powerful, overhead slice. 

Clarke narrowly brought her sword up into time to deflect, and the rest of the evening proceeded about the same. 

Roan would strike, and Clarke would fumble to guard in time. 

But with each hard strike, Clarke felt her muscles buckle more and more, and she knew what he wanted. 

_If you don’t go on offensive eventually, he’ll get a hit in._

And those hits hurt.

So when he swung at waist level, Clarke evaded back, felt the tip of the wooden sword sweep against her clothing, and then lunged forward. Though there was no strength in her strike, she managed to land a hit against Roan’s sword arm. 

Roan smirked and switched the sword to his other arm. Before Clarke could react he landed a hard smack against her side and she winced, stumbling back. In the same moment she brought her guard up and tried to discern any of his tells, but ruefully she couldn’t. 

When he lunged forward, sweeping the back of her knees with a quick kick, she fell on her back. Pain shot through her hip and then the tip of his sword was pressed against the hollow of her throat. 

Dead. 

Clarke groaned and clambered to her feet the moment the sword was withdrawn. “You’re distracted,” Roan pointed out, sword at the ready again. “And you have blood on your clothes.”

_He could at least sound out of breath,_ Clarke thought with a frown, her own chest heaving with the exertion. When he lunged she deflected, but her balance was too far forward and with a twist of his blade, Roan had her staggering to the side. 

Before she could plummet to her knees, Roan spun her around, arm tight around her throat and her back pressed against his chest. She failed to tuck her chin and the loss of oxygen came quickly, her vision spotting and her chest constricting. Panic sung through her veins as she clawed at his forearm. 

“Focus,” Roan said against her ear, but her vision was too spotty and the panic left her stunlocked, her mind flickering images of her capture and in the cave, until the moment her knees collapsed beneath her. Distantly she was aware of Roan cursing and then weightlessness took her.

***

It was a peculiar sensation, passing out from lack of oxygen. Unlike blunt trauma, unconsciousness was quick to give up its claims on her and she woke mere seconds later, groggy and her head pounding.

Confusion made her head spin as she realized her head was against Roan’s thigh, his legs straightened out while he leaned back on his hands. Slowly she moved, putting distance between her and the king, who seemed content to just study the sky, apparently unbothered by the proximity.

“Why did you panic?” Roan asked quietly. 

Clarke shook her head, considering the king’s profile. “It doesn’t matter.” 

The king flicked his gaze to hers and arched a brow. “I need to know why you panicked, Clarke.” 

She repressed the urge to ask why and instead she took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. She dared not look away from the king, “Flashback.” 

His lip twitched and he looked down, but she saw that tension in his shoulders and the clench of his fist. “Sorry.” 

Clarke shrugged and they settled into silence for a few minutes. Eventually, when it seemed they wouldn’t be training anymore, Clarke stood. “I should go back to medical. Veyz wanted me to check on Taisma again.”

Roan nodded in acknowledgement and watched as the blonde haired woman left the training area.

***

As he walked through the marketplace he found himself remembering the fear in the young woman’s face--the way her eyes clouded over as a flashback took over her mind. He should have recognized the panic, but his mind had been elsewhere most of the evening.

_Careless._

Roan scowled and shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand: following Clarke. 

It really wasn’t difficult, and he made a mental note to work with Clarke on stealth. When she slipped into the healer’s cabin Roan moved a bit quicker, ducking near the entrance so he could watch and listen to the encounter. 

If Veyz attacked her, he would act immediately. If Veyz waited, then Roan would wait until Clarke left before confronting the old healer. 

Roan scanned the cabin until he found Veyz at the opposite side from Clarke. He appeared to be tending to another patient, while Clarke was talking to Taisma. 

He couldn’t catch what was being said, but he could see the noticeable loss of tension in the new mother, the weariness in her face offset by the slightest quirk of her lips. As Clarke checked Taisma’s wound Roan noticed Veyz moving closer, a short sword in hand. 

Roan moved with the shadows, curved dagger clasped in his right hand. 

“Clarke,” Taisma warned, but her warning came too late. 

Roan watched Veyz’ movements, painfully aware that the blade was angled for Clarke’s neck. Veyz wasn’t messing around: he saw a threat, and he wanted the threat gone. 

Clarke moved at the last minute and the blade cut into her shoulder, but before Veyz could press his advantage, Roan lunged, blade pressed against the grey haired man’s throat. 

“What do you think you’re doing, Veyz?” Roan asked, drawing the thinnest bead of blood from the man’s delicate flesh. 

“My king,” Veyz said levelly, but there was nothing he could say and he knew it. 

“Do you care to explain why you attacked Wanheda?” 

Veyz sneered. “You expect me to let a child teach my healers--”

Roan spun the older man and with a swift twist of his hip, the man was on the ground. Roan didn’t hesitate to pin the healer down, blade poised at his throat. “I am your king,” Roan interrupted with a heavy glare. “I expect obedience.” 

“This child has nothing to offer you that I cannot,” Veyz hissed. 

Roan smirked. “If Wanheda has nothing to offer, are you telling me that you could have saved Taisma and her child, and you chose not to?” 

“No-”

“You’re treading on dangerous territory,” Roan warned. 

“My king, she is not one of us.” Veyz argued weakly. 

Roan nodded. “No, she is not. But Wanheda and I have an agreement, and until that agreement is settled, she is not to be touched. Understood?” Veyz said nothing and Roan arched an inquisitive brow. “Give me one reason I should not kill you.” 

Veyz stared wide eyed. “You wouldn’t.” 

Roan considered him with a challenge in his gaze. “It seems I’ve found a better healer,” and with a single twist of his wrist the entire question was moot. Dark, crimson blood pooled beneath the older healer, but Roan barely paid him any attention as he turned to address Clarke. 

Except Clarke had wandered to another patient bed and had her leather jacket pulled off her shoulders and half her cotton shirt torn to reveal an angry red cut from the curve where her shoulder met her neck to her collarbone. The front part of her shirt was already stained with blood. 

Roan went to her side, feeling far out of his realm. His idea of first aid involved crudely cauterizing whatever was bleeding: something told him pressing a hot iron that close to her neck would kill her. 

“Have you ever stitched a wound before?” Clarke asked as she pressed a piece of cloth to the wound, her fingers unsteady from blood loss. 

“I know the basics,” Roan said as he replaced Clarke’s grip on the cloth and pressed firmer. 

“Great,” Clarke said less than enthusiastically and pointed him to the supplies.


	9. Running up that Hill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm so sorry for the long delay! I've been working a mixture of 3rd and 1st shifts lately, and the lack of consistency has killed my motivation to do much of anything. (I seriously took a four hour nap today. I hate napping.)
> 
> Second, thank you to everyone that has read and responded. Reading through all the comments again really helped me find the inspiration and drive to come back to this. I've been (re)working the outline, and I think I have a better grip of where I want to take this story, so I hope to be updating more frequently. (Certainly more than once every couple of months). 
> 
> This chapter reads as a bit of a filler chapter, and really my goal with this chapter was just to ease into the passing of time. I mentioned in an earlier A/N that this part of the story gets into some strange pacing; this chapter was an attempt to help mitigate that. Whether it succeeded in that or not is yet to be seen, but you can definitely expect more action in the coming chapters. 
> 
> For those that are still reading, I hope you all enjoy :)

**Chapter Nine**

**Day Ten**

Clarke woke with a jerk, her blonde hair plastered to her scalp while her thin cotton gown clung to the small of her back. Adrenaline thrummed through her veins while her chest heaved, heavy pants escaping between her parched lips.

 _You’re not there. You killed their leader. You’re alive._ The reassurances tumbled through her skull, gradually calming her erratic heartbeat as the echo of Lexa filled her head. _You’re safe._

“I’m safe,” she murmured to herself as she lowered her head back to her pillow, allowing the panic to seep out of her with each breath. “I’m in the Ice Nation capitol. I work as a healer. Roan is teaching me to fight.” 

_He hasn’t done much teaching the past couple of days,_ the thought was a mere whisper of Lexa, but it stung nonetheless. 

Ever since Veyz attacked her six nights ago, Roan had avoided her. He’d gone so far as to catch sight of her and turn on heel in the opposite direction, soon to be replaced by Blair. 

_Does it really matter if Roan teaches me though?_ After all, Blair was an adept fighter as well, and spending her mornings and evenings working with the feisty, green eyed woman had left her less battered than when she trained with the king. Many of her bruises even had time to heal, revealing more of her pale skin than she’d seen in days. Not to mention, the guardswoman was more patient when explaining the maneuvers, giving her more than a few attempts before expecting her to employ it in practice. 

And yet, a part of Clarke missed working with Roan. He didn’t take it easy on her; he expected her to know her own limits and tap out if she needed. But he also knew when she underestimated herself and when he could push her further. 

_Nothing you can do now,_ she thought with a sigh as she slowly slid out of bed and traipsed to the trunk of clothes at the opposite side of the room. She found an undershirt, a long sleeved shirt, and pair of pants made from animal hides. Dressing quickly, she added her leather vest with fur lining the collar before considering herself in the full length mirror. 

Her hair was lighter than it was before, sunbleached in a way space never allowed, but it was also longer. Even as she tugged the unruly strands into a single side braid, the difference in length was noticeable. 

Her cheeks were more prominent, whether from decreased food portions or the natural maturation of her body, she couldn’t tell. And then there was the look in her eyes. They no longer shimmered like the ocean in pictures she’d admired in space; now they were icy. Hardened by the bloodshed: delivered, experienced, and witnessed. 

She had been sent down to this planet as a child in the eyes of her people, but she wasn’t a child anymore. Not in their eyes, and certainly not in the eyes of the Azgeda. 

As she turned away from her reflection, she almost laughed at the peculiarity of everything; of every little and big event that had happened over the course of six months. Today she was eighteen, but no other time in her life had she changed as much as she had since landing on this dreadful, yet beautiful planet. 

_”Are you proud of the person you’ve become?”_

It was the question Jasper asked her one month ago--just a day before he shot himself in the head. He admitted that he wasn’t proud of who he was; he said he didn’t think Maya would have been proud of who he became. 

At the time, Clarke didn’t like herself either. Now, Clarke realized she _was_ proud. 

She never expected to take another’s life. She never thought she’d be raped. She never could have imagined half the things that had happened in the short course of six months, but she honestly thought she was better because of it. 

“Is there a reason you’re standing there smiling at nothing?” 

Mentally, Clarke cursed herself as she blinked out of her reverie, gaze cutting across the room to meet the king’s dancing blue orbs. 

For a moment, she said nothing, instead taking a moment to consider the Ice Nation king. His hair was still wet, held back in a loose ponytail that dripped unceremoniously on her floor. She noted his beard was freshly trimmed as well, shorter than he usually kept it, though the sharp lines still complimented his cheekbones and jawline. 

In place of his full armor, he wore only a grey cotton shirt and loose hide pants with the occasional leather guard and embellishments. Nevertheless, his sword was slung across his hips and a blade was strapped alongside his calf, sheath hidden alongside his boot. 

Clarke realized too late that the king was aware of her scrutiny as he chuckled, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned against her door. 

“Surely you haven’t forgotten what I look like so soon.” 

_He’s in a good mood,_ she thought as she rolled her eyes in response. “Well you have been avoiding me,” she pointed out, finally unfreezing from her spot so she could finish getting ready. 

Roan offered a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement. 

_No, don’t give an explanation,_ Clarke mentally snarked, pretending not to notice the weight of his gaze or the heat that flooded her cheeks. She buckled the sheath to her belt before turning to face the king. 

“The council is angry with me,” Roan conceded. “I’ve been smoothing things over.” 

“Smoothing over how?” Clarke asked suspiciously. 

Roan smirked. “Relax, Wanheda, I haven’t killed anyone.” 

Clarke deadpanned. “I take it they’re angry about me being here.” When he said nothing to confirm nor deny her statement, she assumed she was correct. “What’s changed?”

A glint of approval flickered in his gaze but it was gone in a second, replaced by the absence of emotion. “They don’t want us training in public.” 

Clarke waited for him to go on, and when he didn’t, she arched a brow. “That’s it?” 

“More or less,” Roan answered. 

_There’s something he’s not telling you._ “I’m surprised they don’t want me dead.” 

Roan shrugged. “They do, but for now they see the value of keeping you around. Saving Taisma and her child helped. Taisma and Rydia have spoken on your behalf.” 

With some surprise, Clarke recalled her conversation with the new mother just a few days earlier.

***

_“You’re incision looks good,” Clarke explained, tracing the line of her incision with a hovering fingertip. “Your baby is healthy as well. Right now she’s drinking goat milk so you have time to heal, and so we know for sure that you don’t have an infection.”_

__

__

_Before Clarke could elaborate, the Azgedan woman pushed herself into a sitting position, muscles trembling with the exertion while her cat green eyes watered reflexively. “Where is she?”_

__

_Clarke offered a small smile. “Your daughter is with your mother right now.” Seeing the relief spread through the new mother’s face, she went on. “I want you to monitor yourself? If you feel any pain in your stomach region, or if it’s painful to urinate, then it may be sign of an infection inside. Pay attention to your discharge as well; if it smells strange, let me know.”_

__

_Taisma nodded slowly, brows pinched together as she eased herself back. “Why did you save me?” Her gaze flicked to the puckered flesh at the curve of Clarke’s shoulder, contemplating the king’s haphazard stitches. “You had to know Veyz would retaliate, but you put yourself at risk anyways.”_

__

_Scowling, Clarke merely shrugged, ignoring the twinge of pain in her shoulder. “I didn’t consider the risk until it was done,” she admitted. In retrospect, the naivety of her actions left a bitter ache in her chest. It was childish; she wasn’t in enemy territory, but she certainly wasn’t an ally._

__

_Doubt flickered but it was gone in an instant, followed by weary acceptance. “Then what do you expect in return?”_

__

_“Nothing.”_

__

_“I don’t believe that,” Taisma retorted._

__

_“Fine, I want peace. I know my people have done horrible things but I want that to stop.”_

__

_With a snort the woman fixed her with a look one gives an over eager child. “You’ll have to save a lot more people than just me to earn peace.”_

__

_“I have the winter to help as many as I can." She folded her arms, stubbornness glinting in her eyes._

__

_“You’re naive,” she said with a smirk. “That was unexpected.”_

__

_“I’m hopeful,” Clarke argued, continuing in the same breath, “Why do you hate me, Taisma?”_

__

_In a split second, her expression was blank, gaze hardened. “A.L.I.E. killed my lover.”_

__

_Clarke bowed her head. “I’m sorry.”_

__

_“I can see that,” Taisma sighed, closing her eyes wearily. “I may have been wrong about you, Wanheda.”_

__

_“Thank you.”_

__

_Neither of them spoke while Clarke busied herself with redressing the wound. Once she finished she started to turn away, but Taisma’s clammy fingers tightened around her wrist, stilling her._

__

_Curiously, Clarke leveled her gaze with the Azgedan woman. Conflict warred in her face before a quiet acceptance settled over her. “I still blame you for my lover’s death, but you’ve also given me life with my child,” she paused, as though struggling to think of the words she wanted. “As long as you keep helping my people, I’ll support you staying here.”_

_A surprised smile touched her lips. “That’s more than I could have hoped for.”_

***

“So if you can’t train me in public, then where?”

Roan gestured for her to follow him, and with some reluctance, she did.


	10. A Note to my Readers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, I'm trying to go through and add a short note for each fanfiction that I plan to continue, so that's what this is...

First off, I want to thank you all for your comments, leaving kudos, and otherwise responding so kindly to this story! You guys are awesome, and I really appreciate the continued interest even though it's been so long since I've updated. I want to start off by saying I do plan on continuing this 'fic. 

Honestly, I didn't have anything major going on that's stopped me from writing, I just fell off the fanfiction wagon for awhile. A part of that was my desire to work on some original fiction for awhile, and another part of it was just my need to destress in other ways. That being said, I've managed to write the first drafts for an original trilogy (science fiction with an emphasis on global conflict and war), so I'm one step closer to getting some of my original works published :D I managed to get a week off work around Thanksgiving, so my plan is to edit book one and distribute an editor's copy to a couple close friends, at which point I'm stepping back from the series for a month or two. My goal is that when I return to it and consider my friedns' feedback, I can look at it with fresher eyes, especially since I wrote the trilogy in roughly two months (many, many long nights). That being said, I have a question for you guys: have any of you had publishing experiences either with e-book publishing or through a traditional publisher? If so, what are your recommendations? (About any part of it; I would appreciate any and all feedback here). 

Anyways, back to this fanfiction...During the month or two that I'm staying away from my original fiction, I plan on hashing out/editing several chapters, if not the entire story, for this 'fic (as well as some others). In the meantime, if anyone has any specific scenes or interactions that they would like to see in this 'fic, feel free to leave a comment or shoot me a pm and I'll try to incorporate it. For this 'fic, I have things outlined pretty extensively, but there are a few parts where I've basically said "include something to show passing of time" or equally vague indicators to myself. 

Unlike my other stories, I'm a bit less likely to upload the entire thing, largely because even if I really wanted to, this 'fic will be in the 30 chapter range... I know I won't finish 21 more chapters by January 1st, and I don't want to try promising that either. But I do hope to work out enough of the story that I can update weekly or biweekly, starting mid-December (immediately after finals). 

Ultimately though, I want to thank you guys for sticking with me even though I've been terrible about keeping you all updated on the status of this story.


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